Victory in Defeat

VICTORY IN DEFEAT

A Story of Salvation in the Civil War

Copyright 2015 Tony Flye, LLC.

Published by Tony Flye at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Afterwords

About Tony Flye

Other books by Tony Flye

Connect with Tony Flye

Acknowledgements

Cover Photograph by Matthew Brady / United States Library of Congress

Art work by Rocky M.

Dedication

For Susan, who inspires me always.

Chapter 1

At the newly promoted lieutenant. James Clarke’s command, the war weary soldiers and tired from two day's forced march arriving on the field after midnight last night, clad in ragged butternut and tattered gray stepped off from their resting place in the shady woods on the back side of the ridge. Come on men, let’s go, young Lieutenant Clarke, shouted to his men. This was Lt. Clarke’s first time leading men into battle and he was scared. He wasn't afraid of the fight ahead, he was scared of screwing something up.

The rumor circulating up and down the line of waiting men was they were going to have to cross over a three quarters of a mile of open farm fields, save for the split rail fence on each side of the Emmitsburg Road, a hundred yards in front of the entrenched enemy and attack the Federal line on a ridge behind the low stone wall. Lieutenant Clarke heard the mumbles of a hundred praying men.

His last words obliterated by the sound of canon fire breaking the quiet stillness of the hot July afternoon in 1863 near the little crossroads town of Gettysburg in Pennsylvania. Then another explosion, and another and yet another artillery piece belched fire and a twelve pound solid iron ball. The entire line of confederate artillery just thirty feet up the ridge ahead of them, all one hundred fifty guns across a mile and a half front opened fire. In response to the Confederate artillery the cannons in the Yankee artillery line on the opposite ridge erupted at the same time.

Get down! Clarke Shouted. Get down. Hug the earth. He looked back at his men. They were already down, they didn’t need to be told. His men for the most part were veteran soldiers. Most of them fought both battles at Manassas, on the Peninsula, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg. These were veteran soldiers. For the most part they knew what had to be done and how to do it.

We was nice and content just sitting back in those woods out of this sun staying cool and now we’re laying here in the open, sun beating down, sweat waking up the little critters crawling in my drawers. This is goin' ta be a bad day, Luke Harcourt shouted over the din of the artillery fire to his older brother, Matthew, who laid right next to him, his head merely inches away from his brother's.

The Harcourt brothers, Matthew and Luke, joined up right after Virginia succeeded from the union in April of 1861, along with their cousins Luke and John Harcourt. Matthew, the oldest at twenty-four, had dark brown hair like his mother. He was a lean and wiry man from working on his family's farm since he was old enough to handle a weeding hoe. He was a serious man, never smiling, never joking who stood five feet three inches tall. His weight varied between a hundred twenty and a hundred thirty pounds depending in whether it was before or after the harvest.

Matthew's younger brother Luke was twenty-two with light sand colored hair like his father. Unlike his brother, Luke was a jokester, always interested in the next good time. Luke was built like his brother same height and weight. While Matthew made working on the farm a chore, Luke made working a game. While Matthew almost never smiled, Luke almost never frowned.

Their cousins Mark and John, their father's brother's sons were Matthew and Luke's best friends. When you looked at the four together, you'd think they were all brother, their family resemblances uncanny. As they grew up, if you saw one, you usually saw all four; they were always together. Mark the elder of the Matthew and Luke's cousins was twenty-three years old; five feet three with light hair like his father and a quiet young man. Not quite as serious as Matthew and not quite the jokester as Luke, a happy blend of both.

The youngest of the cousin, John, was also twenty-two, born three days after his cousin Luke making him the baby of the four cousins. John was the tallest of the four at five feet five and the heaviest at a hundred forty pounds John had light hair like his brother. Their fathers, good Christian believers named their sons after the four Gospel writers.

The Yanks are on a ridge about three quarters of a mile over that way, Matthew said indicating toward the copse of trees on the other side of the open field.

The screaming cannon ball fired high flew overhead smashed high up into an old oak tree and split its trunk. At the sound of the cracking oak the four turned to look back in time to see the top third of the tree slowly fall over as if hinged to the remaining trunk then break free and fall straight down driving the section of trunk a foot deep into the ground where the brothers and their cousins had been sitting just a few minutes ago.

Gees, Luke said, we could’ve been killed Matty.

We could’ve been killed anytime from Manassas on but we weren’t, Matthew said. The brothers had fought side by side since the beginning. We could still be killed before this day is over.

Ain’t you scared Matty? Matthew looked at his brother. It was not like Luke to be so afraid. He was always the more confident of the two; always eager to go into battle, always oblivious to the dangers. It was as if Luke thought himself invincible, that nothing could hurt him. Matthew looked at Luke, something was not right with his brother. Today Luke was strangely quiet, almost timid and a foreboding shadow came over Matthew.

No Luke. I don’t want to die but I’m not afraid too. I gave my life up to Jesus at a tent revival when we were kids. When I die, I know where I’m going. I tried to get you to answer the call but you wouldn't go up with me.

Luke looked at his brother. I know where I'm goin', in the ground just like the rest of us. We're gonna feed the worms. I don’t want to hear any more from you about Jesus. What has Jesus ever done for you?

Matthew thought for moment. I’ve been in this army since before Manassas and I’m still alive.

I've been right along side of you and I’m still alive too, Luke said in rebuttal.

Matthew just shrugged. He knew in his heart what he wanted to say to his brother. In his mind he could hear himself speak the words but his mind wouldn't let the words come out. Matthew turned to face Luke. I’ve a feeling that before we’re finished here today we’re both going to be calling out His name.

Luke's mind, in an almost dreamlike state, wandered back to almost two years ago to another hot July day. Manassas, that sunny Sunday, the Lord's day, hurriedly marching towards the field where the war was to have been won. Matthew marched to the left of his brother, Luke. On Luke's right marched their cousins Mark and then John. The four were inseparable. The Harcourts were a close family. Their farms in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, were separated only by a low stone wall, more of a long, thin pile of rocks harvested during the plowing than a separating fence. The cousins spent almost as much time at the other’s farm as they spent in their own.

On the march to his left Matthew saw acre after acre of half grown corn separated from the road by a new split rail fence, the wood still moist with sap and unaffected by the ravages of nature and war.

There was excitement in the air. The rumor going around camp was the Yankees have left Washington and were marching into Virginia and were heading to Centreville, the small farming community a few miles ahead to meet the oncoming rebels. The brand new, never before used flags of both armies unfurled and flew with all the brilliance of their new vibrant, unfaded colors in the bright sunshine. Bugles blared, the drums beat the cadence of the march. All around them the men were ready to flex their collective and superior muscle.

Talk in the ranks was how the army was going to whip the damn Yankees and send them running back to Washington with their tails between their legs. It was going to be easy. Everyone in the Confederate army knew the Yankees weren’t as good as the Southern army. Everybody knew one Confederate soldier was the equal of ten Yankees. This war will be over by sundown, or so the talk up and down the line of march went.

We’re gonna whip ‘em Matthew, we’re gonna whip ‘em good, Luke said, anxiously. I wish we’d hurry up and get there before the war’s over. Matthew didn’t say anything. Being pessimistic by nature Matthew wasn’t so sure of the outcome. I can see it now. Tonight we’ll sleep in Gorilla Lincoln’s bed," Luke added.

Uh huh, Matthew said, almost absentmindedly, as if in deep in his own thoughts. Matthew Harcourt was not so sure. Like everybody else in the ranks Matthew wanted to win but he wouldn’t let the instant victory craze to take root in his mind. Everybody was under the impression the Yankees wouldn’t, couldn’t fight. He hoped they were right but he didn’t think so.

The regiment marched along for a while. Matthew, look at those cornfields, Luke said pointing to the fields on their left. Their own farm was in the lower part of the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, west of the Blue Ridge and east to the Appalachians. It was a good farm with fertile land. The land would almost grow anything.

Gonna be a good crop, Matthew replied, his experienced farmer's eye told the quality of the crop by the depth of the green color. The corn had gotten plenty of rain early on.

The regiment kept moving along quickly and in good order. There weren’t many stragglers, everyone wanted to be a part in the upcoming battle, for it may be the last battle. The dust rising up from the dry road found it’s way into the men’s nostrils and causing some men to sneeze and cough. Pity the guys further back, Matthew thought.

Keep the noise down. Do you want the Yankees to find us by the noise coming outta your big, fat mouths? Sergeant Jonah Wilkins shouted.

Wilkins was an unlettered veteran of the Federal army who served in the Mexican War. When Virginia seceded from the Union on April 17th, 1861, he just silently walked away with the Yankee blue uniform on his back. He stole clothes from the farmer’s wash hanging on the lines as he made his way south. Well, he didn't exactly steal the clothes, he traded. He left his uniform in exchange for what he took.

Union officers were free to resign their commissions and join the Confederate army but the only thing the enlisted men could do was to desert which is what Jonah Wilkins did. He would have been elected as officer but for the fact he couldn’t read or write orders.

It fell to Jonah Wilkins to train the regiment as the field officers were all elected gentlemen and knew nothing about military matters. Sergeant Wilkins said it took a mile of road to carry a thousand marching troops, Matthew remembered. Some of the troops haven’t even started marching yet and they had been on the move most of the morning. Twenty thousand soldiers would be a line twenty miles long and if they traveled twenty miles a day, then the last unit would leave just as the first unit arrived at the bivouac. Interesting concept. The enormity of the move amazed Matthew and boggled his mind.

Matthew studied Jonah Wilkins. One thing that was never short in the Confederate army, at least in the beginning, was whiskey and Wilkins liked his drink a little more than Matthew would have preferred in his sergeant but when it came to doing his duty, Jonah Wilkins showed no signs of the whiskey’s effect. Wilkins instructions always seemed logical and proper to Matthew’s untrained mind. Matthew knew Wilkins was in the Yankee army until a few months ago. He told them of his experience in the Mexican War. Wilkins was a good man. If the Yankees had other soldiers as good as him, this war wasn’t going to be as easy as everybody thought.

Despite the sergeant’s admonishment, Luke kept up a steady stream of talk, speaking to no one in particular. When Luke was nervous, he talked. Matthew learned to ignore his brother when he realized Luke’s babbling was just nervous apprehension. The only good thing about a long march, other than seeing new scenery, was the walking became automatic. You didn’t have to think about it. Your body automatically put one foot in front of the other; left foot, right foot, left foot. It became simple muscle memory.

He looked at the corn in the fields and thought of his own farm. Were the crops at home faring like these? He wondered. He quickly got the image of the family farm from his mind. He didn’t want to think about it, not here, not now.

Hey Luke, John Harcourt said across the line of march from his position on the extreme right side of the line. The cousins always marched together. Can’t you shut up?

No, Luke said good naturedly.

Let him talk, Mark Harcourt said.

Yeah, let me talk, Luke said grinning.

Then say something important, Matthew said kidding his brother.

Luke laughed. Everything I say is important. The four cousins laughed. They were the best of friends, like d'Artagnan and The Three Musketeers; one for all and all for one. Even when Luke, Mark and John all went chasing after Sarah Goode with their tongues wagging.

Sarah, with the beautiful heart shaped face, was the fifteen year old blond daughter of a neighboring farmer who reveled in the attention the three Harcourts paid her. She enjoyed having the three cousins fawning all over themselves as she played one of them against the others. When the boys realized how she was toying with their affections, they each, without consultation with the others, stopped seeing her leaving her to wonder what she did wrong. Now whenever any of the three cousins mentions the name, Sarah Goode, it stands for family solidarity.

Only Matthew was distant enough from the